My mind is off on a joyride of possibilities. “Do you, like, have a china cabinet full of action figures that you say are collectors’ items but then when no one’s around you take them out and make them kiss each other?”
“No.” His brow is furrowed, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was fighting a smile.
“Extreme couponer. Fan club president. Boggle champion?”
“Iampretty good at Boggle,” he says under his breath.
“But not a champion.Hmm.” I tap my chin. “It’s something else. I’ll crack you yet, Grant Hoffman.”
For now, I settle for teaching him some basics: things like the importance of situational awareness, or how shouting something as simple asBACK OFForSTOPcan help ward off an assailant. I feel a little ridiculous parroting back what I’ve learned in my classes to him. More like a kindergartner playing school on the weekend than a real teacher.
I show him a simple two-in-one maneuver for dodging a punch or a weapon, shoving the attacker’s hand aside while jabbing upward toward their face, and make him practice it on me over and over.
“Again,” I say when he steps back, shaking out his arms.
He grimaces, rolling his neck. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Sure, now thatI’myour attacker. But it’s different if someone approaches you with serious intent to harm. You have to commit it to muscle memory. It’s not enough to practice until you can do it right; you have to go until youcan’tdo it wrong.” Again, plagiarizing Uri.
His face is steeped in skepticism. “We only have six days left of this.”
“I hate to break this to you, but that’s about five days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-nine minutes longer than it would take someone to kill you.”
“But nowhere near long enough to rewrite every instinct I have and make me some self-defense master.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I gesture for him to get his arms back up. “You just get it in your bodyenough. Just enough so that when someone comes at you with a weapon, sure, maybe you’re shitting yourself. But you’re shitting yourselfand pivotingthe way you’ve practiced.”
I get him to agree to ten more before we break, and he’sdoing pretty well—sure, his movements aren’t the sharpest, and his hand meets my forearm in more of a polite request not to stab him than a defiant demand. But I can see how hard he’s trying, his brows knit in concentration. Then on attempt number seven, he finally responds with more force—albeit in the wrong direction—and jabs me, hard, in the throat.
“Shit.”He cringes as I reel back, sputtering and coughing. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
I give him two thumbs up as I gasp for air. “Fine,” I choke. “I’m … get … water. Just … keep going.”
I wheeze over to the outdoor bar and pull a water bottle from the mini fridge. Grant reluctantly resumes practicing without an opponent, looking like he’s fighting a ghost. Despite the spasming of my windpipe—or, I guess, because of it—I’m mildly encouraged about his chances.
There’s a quiet groan, and I look toward the house to see Lissa emerging gingerly from the shadows. It’s overcast, but she’s wearing huge blackout shades and shielding her eyes.
I swallow my water, calming my throat enough to speak. “Fun night?”
She groans again. “I am not allowed to mix tequila and Dance Dance Revolution anymore. Remind me of that.”
She grabs a water and chugs half of it before giving me an apologetic wince. “Sorry yesterday didn’t work out.”
“I’msorry,” I say. “We both are. It was not our finest moment.”
Lissa waves a nonchalant hand, half a dozen gold rings catching the morning light. “That’s how it goes, babes. You win some, you lose some. And you know what they say: losing without getting pulverized is still winning.”
I nod. “They do say that a lot.”
Across the garden, Grant is still busy twisting and jabbing, twisting and jabbing. Lissa nods toward him. “What’s this?”
“Just some training,” I say. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to step up our game.”
Grant looks our way between maneuvers, and Lissa waggles her fingers at him in greeting.
“Looking good, Grant!” She leans over to me, dropping her voice to add a suggestive “Andhow.”
I look at her in surprise, then back to him. He looks like a human GIF, locked indefinitely in repetitive motion. But she’s not wrong. He’s getting the hang of this—his movements are sharp and focused, his stance grounded. I feel a swell of pride at having taught him.
